In Morioka, I am lulled by a faint ennui . A sense of restlessness. Anxiety manifesting as slight annoyance.
This is maybe the fifth time I’ve been here. I come here for the trains. To watch the Komachi and Hayabusa come together in a kiss. “It’s true love!” I tell anyone who will listen. I stay in the same hotel every time. I eat at the same places. I walk the same streets. Each time feels like a re-write. I come back different but the delight I feel on the platform is the same.
It’s raining. Is it time to head back to Tokyo? I’ve stayed here too long already. I’ve run out of clean clothing. I’m dressed in clothes I’ve purchased from Family Mart.
I’ll feel better on the train, I think. But also, I don’t really want to leave. I kind of want to stay here, soaking wet, in this ring of mountains. It’s emninently uncomfortable but so so so beautiful still.
I could make friends here, I think. The jazz nut, the golfer, the barmaid, the hip hop DJ. They all seem like they could be part of my life. “I love Morioka!” I tell them, “I’m Iwate’s number one fan!” We sing songs and they laugh at me. “Marry a Japanese boy!” They tell me, “Marry one for the visa! You belong here!” Maybe I do.
On the bridge, walking to the station, I tell myself that I do not require validation from anyone else. I love it, sure. But I do not require it. Maybe I come back here just to see how much I’ve moved on. A stationary yardstick. My favourite station in the journey of my life.
But some things remain the same. The important things. The coffee is excellent. The beef, divine. The cold noodles renew my spirit every morning.